BY BOB McCOLLUM
Officer, that’s my bag!
And there I was, dangling. These feet were suspended 100 feet off the ground, watching the mountain dew settle on the Great Smoky Mountains.
The hangover was just about gone, but I could picture myself heaving onto the ground below the skylift. The swaying of the rickety swing tied up from above meant that splattering to death was a likely option.
I was headed up the mountain to visit an observation deck/amusement park. It just made sense to pay $17.50 to get a little bit closer to nature in the middle of the worst pandemic of the past 100 years.
Then it hit. “OFFICER, THAT’S MY BAG! I DROPPED MY BAG, OFFICER,” proclaimed the yokel, just like John the Baptist told his flock. It didn’t occur to him to secure all of his credit cards, ID and apparently $700 in cold hard cash (which he let every passenger on the skylift know he had).
This was Gatlinburg, Tennessee, goddammit. Everyone who visits deserves a standard break from their mental faculties.
This man had implicit trust in the police system that his Atlanta Braves Velcro fanny pack afforded. Just a few months later, his portrait would be plastered on CNN every 15 minutes as one of the patriots trying to Make America Great Again™ by storming the capitol building (I guess, probably).
The calls of despair were not helping my hangover. Looking down on the mountain was not helping my vertigo. Praying was not going to work. I needed to reach the summit and experience the glory of my creator in person.
Dicknosin’
It was September 2020 and the nation was six months deep into the COVID-19 pandemic. Health experts warned against hanging out in large crowds and leaving your mouth and nose uncovered. I hadn’t done a damn thing since March, and the top of the mountain meant a small victory in getting back to somewhat normal.
And normal is what I got. Most of the people visiting this mountaintop amusement park had never heard of the damn virus. Not exactly the safety protocol I was looking for, but fuck it, Gatlinburg does what Gatlinburg wants.
The disease (which has killed over half a million as of the time of this writing) was nothing to worry about. You could see the spike protein flying through the air as folks ziplined down the mountain, spun around in the Alpine coaster and stuffed their faces full of fried dough.
Some people were trying to follow the safety standards set out by the CDC, but in their own unique (and completely wrong) way. Masks pulled down to cover only the bottom of the mouths made their noses look like they were popping out of a pair of frat party trousers.
These people needed to talk, breathe and spread the fake disease with impunity. It was their God-given right to do whatever they pleased. And the top of the mountain was the place to do it.
No matter how far you walked away from a dicknoser, there they’d pop up directly behind you, mouthbreathing down your windbreaker. You could try to sprint or scatter away, but they’d always show up right behind you, with their disease and intent. It was a total war, and no one was going to win.
Overall it was a nice time at the top of the mountain. Drank a few beers, caught a few majestic views and had some cheap laughs. Nine out of ten, would highly recommend the experience to anyone.
Retail therapy
After getting enough of nature, it was time to experience some world-class shopping.
Onto Pigeon Forge, Tennessee. It’s a hop, skip and a dune buggy ride away from Gatlinburg. In fact, there were tons of dune buggies going up and down the main drag the entire time I was there, and they all had (name redacted) flags on the back. Holy fuck. Where did all these flags come from? The answer: The Official (name redacted) Presidential Merchandise Outlet Store™.
I traveled to this part of the country to see the mountains and relax in nature. By far, the most exotic culture swerve that Southern Tennessee provided was a retail paradise dedicated to the assclown in chief.
By September, it was clear that (name redacted) had no interest in governing or ending the coronavirus pandemic. Now, in Pigeon Forge, I realized that he had eschewed the responsibilities of the presidency to create a massive retail enterprise that leeched off Fox News viewers and people who took Facebook conspiracy theory groups as the gospel.
You might be asking if I went into the (name redacted) store. No, I didn’t have the balls to pull that off. They’d sniff me out in an instant.
What do I imagine the store looked like on the inside? It probably looked like Dante’s fifth circle of hell, harboring the wrathful, slothful wingnuts, doomed to an eternity of hurling the “libtard” insult while they look in the mirror at what they and our county has become. Or, it looked like your local Walmart, full of unorganized shelves and the slovenly conducting their business on mobility scooters with gun racks attached. We may never know…
Fine dining in the Great Smoky Mountains
A day spent up in the mountains gawking at this amazing culture can work up an appetite. Sustenance is available at many places, but it all kind of looks and tastes the same wherever you go.
A fruit cup? No. Sauteed broccoli? The fuck you talking about? How about a fresh acai bowl? What kinda shitbag are you? This is the land of hash browns, home fries and hushpuppies. Top it all off with an eight-piece bucket smothered in gravy and wash it down with a lukewarm Mountain Dew and you have a winning recipe.
Where do you get this type of cuisine? Jimmy Buffet’s Margaritaville. Where do you find a Jimmy Buffet’s Margaritaville? Everywhere. When in Rome, right?
One of the perks of this particular type of dining is that there’s no chance in hell you’ll finish your meal. You’re almost guaranteed to take a doggy bag full of slop back to the hotel with you. Maybe you’ll tie a buzz on and forget your food in your car overnight. Don’t worry, it won’t go to waste.
Black bears roam this part of the world with reckless abandon. If you’re staying up in the mountains, they’ll patrol the parking lot looking for some good grub. Leave your car unlocked because you had one too many lemon blueberry margaritas and one of these precious beasts will ransack your entire vehicle looking for crumbs. They might even help themselves to some of your interior or a rearview mirror while they’re at it.
I don’t consider the $3,000 worth of body work I needed on my car a burden. It was a souvenir of my Gatlinburg experience.
The End
